


Flash Paper Heart

by Unuora



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meanwhile just, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), and uh...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-26 15:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: The apocalypse keeps going awry, well, even more than expected. So Crowley unspools time, and again, and again, until they get it right.And he does get it right, falls right into the arms of his angel, but this whole 'rest of their lives' thing is terrifying. Crowley tries, and fails, to be okay, and is more obvious than he thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uhh, hello! this fic is by far the darkest thing i've ever posted, and while that's not exactly saying much, uh... this does have a happy ending, but it's not exactly all warm and fuzzies.
> 
> [Edit: now with a second chapter, and happier ending!]

There’s something about time magic. It’s temperamental. Dangerous. And Crowley, well, he isn’t an _expert_ he’s just an _idiot_, and he’s more versed than most.

It comes in handy sometimes, despite its consequences. And right now, it’s the end of the world and he keeps watching Aziraphale die in front of him, and he’s finding those consequences not just necessary but irrelevant. No matter what he does, it’s Satan emerging from the ground and smiting him, it’s seeing him fight a legion of demons, it’s watching him burn in hellfire at Heaven’s command. He’s spun time back a dozen times and yet it’s still…

“Heaven and Hell’s star-crossed lovers,” Gabriel mocks but all Crowley can hear is the fading shrill pitch of Aziraphale’s screams. “What a lovely story that would’ve been.”

But he’s right, after all. Crowley has no story without his angel. It keeps going up with the flames.

So, yes, it’s dangerous, but Crowley has nothing to lose. He snaps, and Gabriel and his crowd of angels freeze in their place. With a reckless kind of care Crowley trips through time, unspooling handfuls at his fingertips.

There are a hundred million futures, but Crowley's only interested in one. He's lost track of how many times he's stumbled through futures full of false happy-endings, but when he sees Anges's prophecy he thinks _oh, this is it. _And then he lets time go, letting it take him through every second, every moment, faster than light.

When Crowley falls back into the physical realm in an inelegant sprawl, he has no idea how long it’s been since the apocalypse. He's thrown himself farther in the future than he meant to, and he can only hope that Anges's prophecy was on their side. He's never done so much at once before, and he feels strung out, lost. It's made his head spins perilously, the world on a dangerous axis, and he barely manages to glance around before he’s clenching his eyes closed, fighting back nausea. Even just a second's glance is enough for a burst of recognition to go through him. He's in Aziraphale's bookshop. It’s a realization that would’ve made him sick to his stomach if wasn’t already. All Crowley can see behind his eyes is blackened ash, the cracking, broken down form of his angel burning up in hellfire. He’s got to—he has to—

He stumbles to his feet, lurching against the wall and feeling everything tilt alarmingly. The roaring in his head reaches a peak and he’s falling back to his knees, retching onto the hardwood. It’s nothing but bile, and it burns up his throat so badly it makes his eyes water.

By the time he’s done he’s inordinately exhausted. His limbs are trembling from exertion, and it’s all he can manage to do to not collapse directly in the sick. He lies there, dizzyingly, for endlessly long moments, trying to piece together sluggish thoughts in his head. The bookshop is fine, though. He’s lying half on some dumb tapestry that Aziraphale loved. That must mean—

“Oh, Crowley, have you—” he hears, distantly, and then, closer, rustling, footsteps right near his head. “Oh, _Crowley_, what happened—”

His eyes slip open but Satan, he’s tired. He can’t seem to focus. “Angel,” he slurs, and his eyes slip closed traitorously. He feels a hand on his face and the last thing he feels is a burst of gratitude so bright that he feels like he’ll burn up from it, all whitefire light.

Star-crossed lovers. What a story that would’ve been.

He wakes up in a bed so soft and warm he half believes he died. The duvet is tucked close to his chin, and with sleep numb hands he grips at it, feeling the plush fabric beneath his fingers. He stretches a little, feeling his body creak in protest. Even his toes hurt when he bends them. He wishes the bed would just swallow him alive.

He must’ve made a noise because there’s a startled jolt next to him, and Aziraphale’s at his side, his book hastily shoved away. Crowley feels a little wry at that, that he put up enough of a spectacle that he’s ranking above books at the moment. He opens his mouth to say something snarky, but his mouth is dry and he just coughs painfully.

“Yes, yes, silly me,” Aziraphale says, and he snaps his fingers and a glass of water is in his hand. He’s usually not one for what he calls _frivolous miracles_. It’s what inspires concern in Crowley as Aziraphale helps him sit up and patiently helps him drink.

“This may sound strange,” Crowley says as soon as he’s able, “But can you tell me what happened?”

“Can—can I—yes, that does certainly sound strange, because I was about to ask _you_ what happened.”

“It’s complicated. Lots of—time changing and,” he waves a hand around weakly. “Shenanigans. Dropped me here. Saved the bloody world.”

“Saved the—you mean the apocalypse?”

“The one and only,” Crowley says, leaning back against the headboard. He’s already exhausted, but he needs to know. “It was the prophecy—the body switch that we did, right?”

Aziraphale’s looking at him strangely, brow cinched in concern. Crowley closes his eyes. “Ah, yes. It was. You—the apocalypse—you kept going back because we failed and this time we didn’t?”

“Ah,” Crowley says, and he has to open his eyes again because he can see hellfire burning against the back of his eyelids. Aziraphale’s face is there, staring down at him, gentle in his concern. “Something like that.”

Aziraphale doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets Crowley curl back into the sheets without any more questions. But he keeps his palm on Crowley’s hand as he falls asleep, and he dreams of watching a sunrise, bathed in orange light.

The next couple days Crowley wakes up with Aziraphale sitting at his side. It doesn’t take but a little bit of egging to convince Aziraphale to stay with him, either, and they both get what they want.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley says, looking up at him imploringly. “You must be exhausted too, just sit with me. You don’t need to sleep if you don’t want to. You can read your damn book if you must.”

Every time he does he falls asleep anyway, and Crowley can feel safe to curl against his hip. This close, feeling his angel’s touch all around him, he can almost forget the way it felt watching him burn.

After a week or so he’s feeling better. He is. He’s less tired, and he can get out of bed and do… whatever it is that he’s supposed to do now that the world isn’t ending. It’s just that he doesn’t want to, really. He does it, because Aziraphale spends the day busily doing nothing at all and he’d get suspicious if Crowley didn’t. But at the end of the day he curls himself into the sheets, a tight comma, like he could make himself small enough to disappear, and hopes that Aziraphale will follow.

Occasionally, Aziraphale will crawl into bed with Crowley and let himself be held. It’s not often that Aziraphale eschews the façade of reading for willfully sleeping, but it's been happening more and more, and Crowley tries hard not to think about what it means. He loves it, it’s those few moments that he doesn’t have to pretend. He has Aziraphale in his arms, his, his, his. He protected him. He did good. He has proof. It makes the calcified armor of his heart crack and crumble, leaving only the raw and wounded parts of him.

Aziraphale always gets out of bed too soon, though. Of course he does, because he always has this book to acquire, this manuscript to restore, this document to read. It means that more often than not Crowley wakes up alone, the bed cold, listening to Aziraphale make tea in the kitchen. He’ll open his eyes to the cool midmorning light coming through the window and roll over to the empty space that Aziraphale left. It will still smell like him, always, and Crowley will feel longing in his chest so deep that he gets lost in it.

“Tea, darling?” Aziraphale will ask, poking his head into the bedroom when he sees that Crowley’s woken up.

“No, thanks,” he’ll say, and Aziraphale will hum and be on his way. There’s no reason for it to leave such a gaping hole in his heart, for it to make him feel so wretchedly lonely. What he wants to say is _no, wait, please come back to bed. Please stay for a little longer. Please stay with me, just a moment, one more moment._

He doesn’t think that the Crowley from before would’ve done that, though. He doesn’t know. That person grows more and more ambiguous by the day, it’s hard to tell. He wonders what he looks like to Aziraphale sometimes. Before this, was he living with a normal Crowley and suddenly got saddled with the sickly version? He doesn’t want to know the answer, so he doesn’t ask, even if it sticks in his head. He doesn’t remember feeling so dark inside, so angry and corrupt. But he’s a demon, after all. Maybe it’s always been there.

There’s something about it that crawls up his ribcage, taking root in his heart and lungs and throat. He lives and breathes and feels nothing but anger some days, the kind that breaks down every bone in his body, and he’d do anything to make it stop. He hates the soft wariness in Aziraphale’s voice when he's treating him so softly, like he's fine china that's halfway to breaking.

“Darling,” Aziraphale starts after he realizes Crowley’s breath is coming stuttered and quick. All Aziraphale had done is drop a mug. It’d been fixed in a snap of his fingers. By the time Crowley had turned around Aziraphale had it managed, but that didn’t stop the jolt of adrenalin, the fear of the crash and Aziraphale’s surprised _oh!. _“Are you quite alright?”

“Yes,” Crowley says shortly. “Fine.”

This must be as unconvincing as it feels, because Aziraphale puts the newly mended mug down on the counter and takes a step toward him. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says softly, “No harm done, though.”

“I said it's fine,” Crowley hisses, barely managing to keep his s’s as short as they should be. He realizes abruptly that he stood up in the surprise of it, sending his phone flying somewhere. It doesn’t matter. He’ll find it later. “Changed my mind. Gonna go out to get some wine. Be back in a minute.”

He walks out the door without stopping to hear Aziraphale’s protests. He doesn’t even make it to the end of the block before he’s turning into some alcove, leaning against the wall. He only lasts there for a moment before he’s sliding down, putting his head in his hands as his breath comes short and quick. The problems of running away clearly become apparent, as it’s the first time in two weeks that Aziraphale’s been out of his sight.

_He’s alone there, what if someone comes for him and he’s alone, and he has to fight by himself and you’re here just losing it—_

Stop, stop it. He’s fine, he’s fine, Aziraphale can handle himself.

By the time he’s calmed himself down he’s dizzy with exhaustion, and he doesn’t want to go back. He’s has no idea how long it’s been, and even after a half a dozen miracles he’s not sure he can mimic normalcy. When he sneaks back, though, Aziraphale doesn’t say a thing. He lets Crowley beg off to bed early but he knows he didn’t get away with it that easy.

He’s smart, his angel, and Crowley wishes he would stop looking.

He doesn’t, though. Crowley can feel him watching, ever closer, and even if he doesn’t say anything Crowley knows. It scares him, it makes him angry. There’s that dark part of him again, the part that knows he can make it all stop, just for a moment. It’s horrible, if he thinks about it, and he knows it’s wrong.

He does. It doesn’t stop him from wanting it. It’s tempting, the idea of silence that he could hold on to.

The next time that Aziraphale is tucked in bed with him he stops time. For a long moment he holds his breath in the stillness, feeling the eerie strangeness of a world frozen in time. Aziraphale doesn’t move, his breath still in his chest, but he’s still warm to the touch. Crowley’s next inhale comes jagged, catching, and when he exhales its on a sob.

Crowley clutches at Aziraphale, presses his face against his neck and cries. He’s unnaturally still and quiet, like all the life has slipped out of him. But he knows he’s got this, he’s got Aziraphale, healthy and happy in his hands, and it makes him cry all the harder. He doesn’t remember falling asleep through it all, but he wakes up with Aziraphale still in his arms. He wakes up with Aziraphale warm and safe beneath his grasp.

There’s that dark, evil part of him that wants to keep it this way forever. It curdles in his stomach, and he gives himself a handful of moments to hate himself before letting time slip on again. Immediately Aziraphale’s breathing resumes, the gradual restlessness that he didn’t realize was so prominent until it was gone. It’s like the room is filled with air again, and Crowley has to stifle a gasp.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is slurred with sleep. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Crowley says, very soft, as if to not disturb the quiet. “Go back to sleep.”

And then Aziraphale does, and Crowley shoulders the gratitude he feels that he gets to hold Aziraphale at all, let alone like this. Through the night, peaceful, loving.

He tells himself he’s not going to do it again. Freeze time like that. He tells himself it’s unfair to Aziraphale. It's immoral. And it is. But he does it again. And then again.

He doesn’t know how to stop. Aziraphale hauls him out of bed in the morning with a dazzling smile, and a, “Oh, Crowley, my dear, I was thinking that we could—” and then they’re off for the day. It doesn’t matter what it is. Whether it’s some museum, or a new bakery in south London, or if he’s just about to snark at Aziraphale as he does his errands.

He loves it. He does, he really does. He loves every moment he has with Aziraphale, more than anything else in the world, and he wouldn’t give sacrifice a single moment.

He’s just—Oh, he’s tired. He’s never been more tired in his life.

Aziraphale spends more and more night in bed with him until it’s every night, and it’s still not enough. He spends the early hours of the night fighting sleep, trying to memorize what it’s like to feel comfortable and safe. He doesn’t know why in the morning it feels so inadequate.

See, he always knew that if he kept this up he’d be caught out eventually. It was no surprise. And when it happened it was because he’d been reckless. He was tired, and he couldn’t go about freezing time whenever he wanted. But earlier that day he’d stopped it in the morning before Aziraphale could get up, he’d panicked over a car turning haphazardly towards them when they were crossing the street and froze everything in it's path, and then again to collect himself when Aziraphale accidentally lit his sleeve on fire while cooking. When he unfreezes time he feels lightheaded with it, but he manages to avoid Aziraphale’s scrutiny until later.

“Ah, it’s as good as a time as any,” Aziraphale says suddenly, putting his fork down. They’re sitting at the table eating, well, mostly Aziraphale is eating. Crowley still feels sick to his stomach due to his earlier stunt, and he’s got his past reluctance with food to back himself up, but he’s eaten a few mouthfuls for the angel’s sake.

“Good time for… what exactly,” Crowley asks, not managing to keep the wariness out of his tone. He’s so tired he could fall asleep right here, but if Aziraphale has a plan there’s not a world where Crowley doesn’t follow.

“Crowley, er,” Aziraphale looks nervous, which puts Crowley instantly on edge. He sits up straighter. “Are you—have you been freezing time?”

Crowley’s mouth drops. “Ah, n-uh, no, I’m not—” he stops at the plaintive way Aziraphale’s looking at him. He can’t even finish the lie. He feels guilt stir in his gut, thick and nauseating. He’s glad he’s eaten so little. “Okay, okay, alright, you’ve caught me, but I’m—I’ll stop, you’ve got my word, I won’t do it again.”

Aziraphale looks at him, so soft and gentle and understanding it makes Crowley want to vomit. He might. “Listen, angel, I’m sorry, I am—I’m so sorry, and I—” Without really knowing what he’s doing he stumbles to his feet, making the silverware clatter nosily. Aziraphale stands with him automatically, his hands raised in vague alarm. “I won’t— It won’t come up again, ok? Heard you loud and clear. But I should be going, angel, thank you for the—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale finally says, looking wide eyed and shocked. He grabs Crowley’s arm when it’s clear that he still fully intends to bumble out the door. “You haven’t left my side in months, you think I’m going to let you now?”

It’s ridiculous, no, it’s _insane_ how quickly that makes Crowley’s eyes burn with tears. Before he’s even aware of them they’re bubbling over, and he wrenches away, mortified.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “Please talk to me.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Crowley says, angrily rubbing away tears that keep coming. He tries to walk away again but Aziraphale’s there, grabbing his arms and forcing him in front of him.

“This isn’t _nothing_, darling,” Aziraphale says, sounding… wretched. It’s the shock of it that makes Crowley look up at his face only to see the raw fear and heartbreak he’s showing there. He just promised, just a moment ago, but he almost freezes time, just to give himself a second’s reprieve.

Instead, he blurts out, “Don’t look at me like that.” He means it to sound snarky, more blasé, but it just sounds desperate. It might be because he means it though, because he does, because he can’t handle another moment of it.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breathes, and his hands are gentle but firm on Crowley’s arms. “You’re scaring me.”

When Crowley breathes in it judders in his chest uneasily. He tries to force back the tears, feeling it well high up in his chest, like a storm he’s trying to trap. “I’m fine, I’m just—” he can’t even think of a good lie. First tempter, right. A demon who’s run out of lies. “Tired. I’m tired.” That one’s not even a lie.

“Tired,” Aziraphale says slowly. “Say, can we—let’s go to bed early, darling. It’s been a long day—”

“Don’t,” Crowley snaps, feeling suddenly angry, despite the absurdity of it. “Don’t coddle me.”

Aziraphale swallows thickly, and for a terrifying moment Crowley thinks Aziraphale might cry. All of his anger dissipates in a flash. “You never let me, anyway,” Aziraphale says, sounding choked. “You're slipping away from me and I don't know how to stop it. Please let me love you.” His voice is a whisper but Crowley feels every word in his bones. When Aziraphale tugs him down he goes without resistance. He feels the press of lips against the corner of his mouth and he can’t help the gasp, and then Aziraphale is kissing him, gentle and loving. He doesn’t remember the last time they did this. Too long. Forever ago. He doesn’t know why they haven’t, he just—he—

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps into the kiss, and Aziraphale’s hands are gentle in his hair, cupping his face like he’s darling, loving, something to be cherished. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Aziraphale says, getting that look of raw concern again. “Come, dear, let’s lie down. You look like you might topple over.”

“No, Aziraphale, I—the stopping time—I am sorry, I’m so sorry.” He lets Aziraphale huddle him to the stairs, but he stops before they ascend. “You don’t need to do this. You’ve done so much for me, I can’t—you’re so—”

“Then—then please do this for me?” Aziraphale’s voice cracks a little bit and he swallows, clearing his throat. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk to you for months now, and—and it’s important to me that you’re okay. Alright?”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says hoarsely. He thought he had been doing such a good job keeping Aziraphale away from it, but… Now, here’s the evidence he’s been hurting Aziraphale anyway.

“Please—please stop apologizing,” Aziraphale says, kissing the corner of his mouth gently. “It’s not like you.”

Crowley feels his shoulders tense up at that, but he nods dully and climbs the stairs when Aziraphale nudges him to. Aziraphale crawls into bed first, then Crowley, pulling the duvet up over their shoulders. It’s different, this time, because Aziraphale is facing Crowley. He’s looking right at him. He reaches down and grabs one of his hands, threading their fingers together.

“Can you please tell me what this whole stopping time business was about?”

“Ah,” Crowley says, squirming away from Aziraphale’s stare. His eyes skitter away, nervous.

“I’m not mad,” Aziraphale says. “No matter what it’s about I’m not angry with you.”

“You should be,” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale sighs. He squeezes their joined hands.

“When were you doing it?”

“Just—you know, whenever,” Crowley stutters, wishing he could hide somehow. “It just—it started because I wanted you to stay in bed longer and this—well, I’d wake up and you’d,” he swallows, and his voice gets quiet. “You’d still be there.”

Aziraphale’s face is lined with aching vulnerability. “You could’ve asked, darling. I would’ve said yes.” He kisses their joined knuckles, and for the first time Crowley’s eyes snap back from where they’ve drifted away. “I’d still say yes.”

“I just—It's a lot. I didn’t want to bother,” Crowley says, then quickly, like if he says it fast enough Aziraphale won’t pay attention. “It didn’t feel like something that the old Crowley would do.”

“The… old Crowley?”

“The, y’know,” Crowley makes an aborted gesture with his hand only to realize he’s holding onto Aziraphale’s too. “Whoever I was before the— I don’t remember the end of the apocalypse or after. I remember going back over and over trying to save you until it worked and being tossed—well, here.”

“So… you replaced another version of yourself?”

“No, no, I,” Crowley purses his lips, feeling at odds with explaining this. “It was me who went back and did things right, I just didn’t remember—everything else until later. So, you had this nice post-not-apocalypse trial run with a version of me who was okay and now you get th—this.”

Aziraphale’s frowning. “It’s upsetting to me that you think that I’d want you less just because you’re hurting.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Crowley gestures with his free hand. “I get scared every time you’re out of my sight, and I want to trap you close to me forever, and—”

“You’ve been stopping time so I wouldn’t notice,” Aziraphale realizes, his mouth parting in shock. He stares at Crowley for a moment, looking horrified. “How many times have you panicked and froze time to deal with it yourself? How many times have you needed my help and went without because you didn’t want to _bother_?”

Crowley clenches his eyes closed. “It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter. How many times until you’re sick of it? It’s so—so much, and you have your own life to live.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, squeezing his hand. “What if it was me? What if it was me and I was hiding from you every time I needed help? That you knew I was suffering alone, and you couldn’t help.”

“You wouldn’t,” Crowley says seriously.

“Of course—of course I wouldn’t,” Aziraphale says, exasperated. “But you’d find that intolerable, as—as I do, and—oh, Crowley, I love you so much, I would never tire of loving you. You’ve never done anything to deserve otherwise.”

Crowley shakes his head, sighing shakily. “I don’t—Aziraphale I let you die, I kept letting you die.” The sclerae of his eyes is gone under the blown-out amber. “I want to be good for you, it took me so many tries—I failed so many times before I got it right.”

Aziraphale tugs Crowley closer, who wordlessly curls into his arms. “But you did it,” Aziraphale whispers. He rubs soothing circles on Crowley’s back, and he begins to shake as sobs take him again. “You did so marvelously, darling. You were so good at protecting me, and now, my love, it’s my turn to protect you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll admit i'm going through a rough time, and i guess i just had to take it out on crowley. sorry, boo. you're okay in the end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale just hopes that now, after all this, Crowley can see how hard he's trying to reach him.
> 
> He's been waiting for Crowley, waiting and waiting, and he's not going to leave him alone now that he's caught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was never meant to have a second chapter, dang it! but here i am. i wrote this.
> 
> *bangs on wall* let me out

There’s something wrong with Crowley.

Aziraphale’s sure it started the moment that Crowley fell back into his bookshop, all pale-shocked and drawn out. It’s just that Aziraphale could never figure out how to ask. If he said anything about the apocalypse, or why Crowley was messing with _time_ of all damned things, he got so tense and wary Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to push.

“How long have you been adept in time magic, my dear?” Aziraphale asked the morning after Crowley woke up in his bookshop, all worn and sick. Aziraphale had made him tea for him to drink in bed, aiming for a casual conversation to catch up. At the question Crowley tenses up, and numbly takes the tea, silent for a long moment.

“Ah, well,” Crowley says, sighing. He takes a sip of his tea, surely scalding himself, but he doesn’t flinch. “A while, you pick things up after a while, y’know.” The strange reticence bewilders Aziraphale, and he takes his time arranging himself in the chair at Crowley’s bedside.

“Time isn’t something one usually messes with idly,” Aziraphale says softly, after he's settled himself. Crowley swallows, his shoulders hunching up slowly.

“It is when it’s necessary,” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale’s not sure if he was supposed to hear that. He drops it, mostly because of the soft vulnerability he sees in Crowley’s eyes, and tries not to think about it too hard. He’s recovering, after all. What’s more important than to be there for him.

He’s got a pretty good idea about what’s going on anyway. There are some missing some pieces, but he can figure out the gist of it just fine. It’s just that he has no idea what to do. Crowley’s body recovers after a week, and then he’s back to lurking around corners of his bookshop and tempting passersby when they’re out in London. It looks like everything is fine.

Aziraphale knows there’s something wrong, though. Crowley hasn’t once mentioned going back to his apartment, and just seamlessly inserting himself into Aziraphale’s life. He doesn’t mind it, but it isn’t until he catches Crowley trying to tamp down panic after he’d snuck out to Tesco’s late at night that he really understands.

So he plays it close. He tries not to stay out of sight for too long, and he talks aimlessly when Crowley’s looking strung out, and he tries to dredge up every book and every bit of advice he knows about _being emotionally available._ Crowley’s inordinately good at pretending, though and he’s watching it be turned on him, and he’s helpless to do anything to stop it. There are some days he even believes it. Crowley will give him some devil may care smile, a devious temptation, and Aziraphale forgets.

It’s the sleeping that really tips him off, though. After a week, two, Aziraphale sees Crowley sleeping in bed more often that he seems him out of it. At first it was just _he’s recovering, he’s getting better,_ but then it never stops.

Their first conversation about it goes catastrophically.

“Of course, you don’t understand,” Crowley snaps. “I don’t complain about the number of stupid cakes you eat, so don’t harass me about how I spend my time.”

“I’m not—it’s not harassing,” Aziraphale huffs. “I’m just saying that I’m concerned that you’d rather be asleep than—”

“How is that not harassing?” Crowley throws his hands up. He seems genuinely angry, not just the general bluster that they usually give each other. “It’s none of your concern and if you’re really that upset about it, I can just leave—”

“Dear, I want to spend time with you,” Aziraphale sighs, trying his best to look nonconfrontational.

“Great,” Crowley says, his shoulders hunching defensively. “And I’m here.” For a moment it looks like he’s going to say something more, his face still a complicated mess of emotion even behind the glasses, and then he turns on his heel and stomps off.

So, he lets Crowley ‘tempt’ him into sleeping by his side, as if that’s something he needs to be tempted for. He learns quickly that if he feigns sleep that Crowley will curl up close, and some of that tension he’s been trying so hard to hide away will slip off. But by the morning Aziraphale will stare down at the still shape in the duvet and feel like Crowley’s been reduced to a lost ghost. He’s never normally this still, until he is, and then his sleep slack form looks ghastly instead of relaxed.

Aziraphale learns that if he gets up then Crowley will too, following him into the bright morning light. It becomes this perverse routine, where they go about delicately hiding things they need to say for their greater comfort. Aziraphale knows it will never last, but he doesn’t have the first clue to how to stop it without reducing Crowley to ash.

Aziraphale’s there, waiting, watching as things slip through the cracks, sometimes, the hints of it. Crowley jumps at loud noises sometimes, he tenses himself into a ball of anger for seemingly no reason, he refuses to let Aziraphale out of his sight when they’re in public.

He tries to be gentle, but every time he tries to go to Crowley, he’s making some sort of excuse, disappearing into another room as soon as he can. The first time he runs straight out of the bookshop Aziraphale very nearly runs after him.

Except—except he can’t. If he chased after, pushed too hard, and Crowley ran away for good Aziraphale would never forgive himself. Whatever reason Crowley feels he can’t talk to Aziraphale he has to respect that. He sits at his desk with his head in his hands, trying not to think about Crowley feeling so paralyzingly alone that he can’t talk to him. When he sneaks back into the bookshop Aziraphale pretends he doesn’t hear. Then he makes himself wait a half hour, no, an hour, to be sure that Crowley’s asleep before carefully climbing the stairs to join him.

Thankfully, he’s asleep, and Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate to miracle himself into pajamas and join him. He runs his hands through Crowley’s hair, watching with an ache in his heart as even in his sleep he turns towards him, like a moth to light.

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale whispers, quiet enough that he won’t wake him. “I hope you know that I’m here waiting for you.”

The next morning, he wakes up feeling strange, like there’s a memory that’s just out of reach. It bothers him the whole day, in the back of his mind, just something he can't manage to shake. He almost mentions it to Crowley, but he’d been so subdued the whole day. It was like some of the frenetic energy had just drained out of him. Aziraphale’s not quite sure if it was a good thing, but he doesn’t want to concern him about something silly like his memory going.

Then it happens again, and again, and again. He finds it peculiar how he feels it so strongly in the morning, and then it slips away by the end of the night. By nightfall he can rarely even remember what the little niggle in his brain was about, let alone discern where it came from.

It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before, and he tries not to think of it in the face of Crowley’s surprising improvement. Suddenly, he’s getting out of bed to meet Aziraphale in the kitchen in the mornings. He laughs and jeers at all the right parts of Aziraphale’s stories. He hardly ever catches him fretting any longer, about anything at all. It’s nothing short of miraculous.

He doesn’t believe it for a second.

There are moments where he feels like he’s almost got it. The wind sends the bedroom door slamming closed, loud as a gunshot, and Crowley makes a small, startled noise. When Aziraphale looks at him, though, he’s calm and collected, smiling wryly.

“Windy, this morning, isn’t it,” is all he says.

Aziraphale doesn’t know why that feels so wrong. He spends the rest of the day thinking about it, turning it over his head, the shape of Crowley’s smile, his articulate collectiveness.

He worries at it, like the fraying end of a thread, at every stolen moment. He can't help it, really. It's just that he finds himself watching Crowley, his beloved, sweet demon, and thinks _what are you hiding from me, my dear._

He’s not sure when he exactly figures it out, it’s not like he has some sort of snap awareness of it all. It’s more of a dawning realization. He wakes up with that little bothersome note in his head, and he’s watching Crowley putter around the kitchen. He’d insisted that it was his turn to cook, and relegated Aziraphale to the chair.

It’s Crowley, it’s always Crowley. He frets and worries and does everything he can to make Aziraphale happy. He saved the world. He can bend time. He stopped time.

He’s stopping time.

Aziraphale watches him cook, feeling this sudden understanding settle in him, deep in his bones. Crowley swears at the cutting board of vegetables he’s cut in imperfect pieces. He snaps his fingers irritably, and they obediently become more equal in size.

“That’s cheating, darling,” Aziraphale says from his chair.

“_That’s cheating_, _darling_,” Crowley immediately mocks, but obligingly doesn’t use anymore miracles.

“Thank you, my love,” Aziraphale says when he’s done cooking and sulkily serves Aziraphale. He takes a bite, barely managing to fight back his smile at Crowley’s obvious eager anticipation in order to chew. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s just stir fry,” Crowley grumbles, miracling them both glasses of wine. He stares at Aziraphale over the rim. “Anyone could do it.”

“But you’re not just anyone,” Aziraphale says, enjoying the way Crowley’s begun to blush. “You know what they say about love being the secret ingredient!”

He says it entirely to make Crowley sputter, which it does. “Stop being so cheesy,” Crowley grumbles, looking away. He’s hiding behind his glass of wine, his face red. He’s so darling, Aziraphale can’t stand it.

Try as he might, he has no idea why Crowley would feel the need to stop time. Every moment is so precious, yet he’s bending time, hiding something so far away Aziraphale can’t hope to follow. If he hid anymore, he’d disappear entirely.

He begins to note the signs of it. He feels that weird little tickle in his head, and he notices Crowley’s weariness. Aziraphale’s been painfully aware of how worn thin Crowley’s been since he first fell back into Aziraphale’s bookshop, but this is different. It’s this physical exhaustion, the way that Crowley’s feet drag, the way he dozes off so readily when Aziraphale’s reading. It’s so obvious now that Aziraphale’s watching for it and sees it all like it’s lit in neon.

Crowley might obediently run through all the steps in the morning, but Aziraphale can see him losing momentum like a wind-up toy stuttering to a halt. He falls asleep at the kitchen table once, and when Aziraphale notices he feels guilt wrench through him so savagely he feels sick. He’s still a coward, though, in some way, because he just nudges Crowley awake and hauls him upstairs.

“Long day,” Crowley mumbles, snapping his fingers and they’re both dressed in pajamas. Aziraphale hadn’t planned on going to bed this early, he had a new book that he’d been eager to get to, but this is as close as Crowley gets to asking.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, softly running his hands through Crowley’s hair, watching him sigh into it. “Get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

It hadn’t, really. Not anymore than any of their others, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to quibble. Crowley falls asleep in moments, and Aziraphale tries his best not to notice how pale and worn he’s getting. He hasn’t seen Crowley get panicky or tetchy in weeks, but he thinks this is so much worse.

When he finally confronts him and Crowley shatters like a pane of glass Aziraphale feels every crack like it’s splitting right down his soul. He thinks that even after the end of the world trying to convince his love not to run is the scariest thing he’s ever done.

“You did so marvelously, darling. You were so good at protecting me, and now, my love, it’s my turn to protect you,” he says, and he hopes in every part of him that Crowley believes him. He’d rather go toe to toe with God Herself than let anything like this drag on, letting Crowley suffer.

“I need you to promise me something, please,” Aziraphale whispers once Crowley’s crying had petered out. He’s still shuddering in his arms, but Aziraphale is terrified that this moment will slip away, and Crowley will go back to pretending that he is okay. “I need you to tell me when you need help.”

Crowley makes a little noise from where he’s tucked against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Please, at least tell me you’ll try,” Aziraphale says. “I can’t—don’t make me sit by while you torture yourself.”

“Okay,” Crowley says after a moment, voice mangled with tears. “Okay.” With fumbling hands, he takes Aziraphale’s hand and presses the knuckles to his mouth. “I love you,” he says, voice cracking and a new wash of tears takes over him.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, pull him closer, as if he could squeeze him tight enough that they’d both be alright. “I love you too, my darling. I would do anything to make you happy.”

“Can we—um,” Crowley says, swallowing thickly. “Can we stay here?” Aziraphale’s a bit surprised he even asked, already dutifully trying so hard. It’s what he assumed they’d do, even though it was early, the sun barely set. It’s not the first time he’d be drug to bed by Crowley for various reasons. It’s the first time he’s asked, though.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, kissing his forehead. There’s a moment of silence where Aziraphale thinks that they’re just going to go to sleep, but then Crowley speaks again.

“Can I hold you?” he asks, voice frightfully small.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, then quickly, before Crowley can start any of the backpedaling that’s surely building in him. “Yes, of course, always.”

Aziraphale rolls over and Crowley situates himself close against Aziraphale’s back, his arms curled protectively around Aziraphale. Aziraphale lets their fingers thread together, pressing their joined hands close to his chest. Crowley makes a little noise, his face tucked against the nape of Aziraphale’s neck.

“You really like this, don’t you,” Aziraphale says, smiling at the embrace. He squeezes their hands and Crowley squeezes back.

“You’re mine,” Crowley says in explanation. “It reminds me you’re here.”

“I’ll always be here,” Aziraphale says.

“It reminds me you’re safe,” Crowley clarifies. He sighs shakily and his warm breath against his neck makes Aziraphale shiver. “No one’s taking you from me ever again.”

“Never,” Aziraphale agrees, his throat tight. “You’re doing so well, darling, thank you.”

Crowley falls asleep next to him, and Aziraphale stays awake for a long time, realizing that this must be the feeling that Crowley’s been chasing all this time. He feels Crowley’s arms around him, the gentle assurance and he knows even if it takes eternity, he’ll will follow Crowley anywhere to keep him from being alone again.

There is not a single thing that is easy about it. The first time that Aziraphale catches Crowley crouched in their bathroom, breath coming short and quick, Aziraphale almost reprimands him. _Oh, my dear, you’re not supposed to be hiding from me anymore. _Then Crowley’s turns to him, face contorted with fear, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I promised, and I didn’t—”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, kneeling next to him. He’s got no idea what started this one. The last time he saw Crowley he was peacefully watching tv in the back room, and he hadn’t heard a peep from him since. “I know, I know, it’s okay, you’re doing so well.”

“I didn’t do what you asked,” Crowley wheezes, ducking his face between his knees. He’s digging his fingers into his hair so hard it’s got to hurt. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale says, shuffling closer, but not quite touching. “I asked you not to freeze time, and you didn’t. I’m not mad. I know you’re trying so hard.” Crowley just whines, his body leaning infinitesimally towards Aziraphale’s. “Can I touch you?”

“Please,” he gasps, and so Aziraphale does. He tugs Crowley’s shoulder down and he goes, folding against Aziraphale with ease.

“Can you feel that?” Aziraphale extenuates his breathing, sighing out a breath. Somewhere along the shuffle Crowley had grabbed his hand, and he presses their joined hands to his chest. “Can you try that, following my breathing?”

Obediently Crowley does, and the first breath judders and catches in his chest, but he breathes with Aziraphale, then again, and again.

“I’m safe, and you’re safe, right?” Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley’s head, who nods slowly in agreement.

“Yeah,” Crowley manages eventually, “Yes, you’re safe. You’re—I can feel you here.” Crowley’s hand flexes where he’s gripping Aziraphale’s shirt. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

“Good,” Aziraphale says, hugging him close. Slowly, but ever so surely, Crowley’s breathing slows, matching Aziraphale’s. It’s only when he’s calmer he dares speak again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know how—” Crowley starts after a moment. His breath is steadier, but when he begins again his voice is a haunted whisper. “How do you handle it?”

“Handle… what?”

“Time,” Crowley says vaguely, “It just—goes, and it’s loud, and it keeps going, and if I can’t stop it—” he cuts himself off. “I didn’t stop it, though. You asked me not to.”

“And you did good, my dear,” Aziraphale says, but he’s frowning. “When you freeze time, you could control everything. And now, well, you can’t. Of course, that’s scary.”

He runs his hands through Crowley’s hair for a moment, listening to how he sighs, breath still catching ever so much. “There are these things that keep you here, in this moment,” Aziraphale whispers, pressing their hands tight to his chest again. “My heartbeat, right? You can feel me here, right now.”

“Yes,” Crowley agrees. “Right now.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know if Crowley comes to him every time he needs him, but after that he does come occasionally. Then he’ll hold him tight, breathing with him, and Crowley will count off the things that keep him here. At first, it’s all about Aziraphale, his heartbeat, his breathing, him, him, him. The first time that Crowley names something else it feels like an achievement. He can focus on the noisy ambience of London’s city life. He can feel the coolness of the tile beneath his feet. He can—

He’s going to be alright.

It’s never easy seeing Crowley tear himself apart, one bone at a time, until he’s reduced to just panic, or anger, or despair. It’s just that Aziraphale doesn’t see that lost ghost in the sheets anymore, he doesn’t feel quite so far away. Even the days that Crowley compresses himself into a listless comma beneath the duvet Aziraphale knows now to climb by his side, to talk about whatever comes to mind until Crowley has something to say.

He’s getting a bit restless, though Crowley would never admit that. Though all his old plants must’ve long since died over the past months, Aziraphale wonders about his gardening. All the yelling and such never sounded like it was that good for the soul, but who’s Aziraphale to judge.

Crowley’s been getting better and better at letting Aziraphale out of his sight while they’re in public, and when they’re out Aziraphale takes a moment to peruse the gardening section before meeting back up with him.

“What’s that?” Crowley asks, looking at the little rubber plant Aziraphale’s got in his cart.

“For you,” Aziraphale says primly, trying not to laugh too much when Crowley nearly fumbles the loaf of bread he’s holding straight onto the floor.

“Wuh—why?”

“Thought it might be interesting,” Aziraphale says, pushing the cart away and leaving Crowley to jog behind him. “Do be nice to this one, though.”

He does shout at it some, just a bit, but whenever he does Aziraphale comes up behind and shouts at _him_. Not insults, but silly little pet names and cute compliments.

“Munchkin,” Aziraphale jeers, “My adorable little demon.”

“Stop,” Crowley groans. The little plant is still in his hands, and if a plant could giggle, it would be. “You’re making me look bad.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale laughs, giving Crowley an obnoxiously loud kiss on the cheek. “You’re always bad. Just the baddest demon.”

Before long Crowley has created his little garden at the bedroom windowsill, a dozen or so plants flourishing under his care. It’s funny how flustered he gets if Aziraphale compliments them, watching him veer from defensive to embarrassed lightning quick. It’s something that keeps him busy and content, though, and sometimes Aziraphale will catch Crowley sitting on the windowsill with a pot in his lap, mumbling something too quietly to hear.

They’re not all good days, of course. There are days where Crowley will run back form Tesco’s in a panic, hauling Aziraphale into his arms before he even knows what's happening. But then Aziraphale will be there for him, and he’ll pick up the groceries and miracle the eggs back together, and he’ll survive.

“Why did you never go back to your apartment?” Aziraphale asks once. “Wasn’t there anything there that you wanted?”

“No,” Crowley answers honestly. “Not really.” Eventually he goes and cleans it up, sells it the right way. He puts everything all neat in boxes and they sit in the back of the bookshop, untouched. Its understandable, it’s not like there’s too much extra space in the shop, but it bothers Aziraphale. He looks at them sometimes when he’s at his desk, and just wonders.

He’d never admit it, but he’s got some postings of houses for sale tucked in his desk. Something with an impressive kitchen, a lot of space for plants. Something that could be for both of them. He doesn’t dare say anything though. The very thought of it bubbles anxiously in his brain like an overboiled pot. He's sure that Crowley would say yes, but is he ready, is it too much, would it be too stressful-- 

Then, there’s one day where Crowley meets him at the door with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His smile is off kilter and nervous, but he looks at Aziraphale with an expression so full of love.

“Dinner, angel?”

Aziraphale titters and giggles over the extravagant flowers, miracling up a vase for them. He puts them on his desk and stares at them, then Crowley, and can’t decide which is more stunning.

“Where are you taking me?” Aziraphale asks as he takes Crowley’s arm and he leads them to the Bentley.

“Oh, it’s a surprise,” is all he says, as he lets Aziraphale into the car.

A surprise turns out to be a gorgeous Italian restaurant Aziraphale had never heard of. It’s absolutely lovely, and he half expects that Crowley materialized it out of thin air just to impress him. He’s enjoying himself immensely and would be even more so if Crowley didn’t look like he was going to jump out of his skin at any moment.

“Are you quite alright, dear?” Aziraphale asks for the third time, watching Crowley fidget and his eyes flicker about. They haven't even gotten their meals yet. “This is lovely, but if you’re uncomfortable—”

“No!” Crowley says, then he chuckles, shaking his head. He takes off his glasses, putting them on the table. “No, no, ugh, this is all wrong, I had a plan, but I’m messing it all up—”

“Mess—what did you need a plan for?”

“Just shh for a second, I—” Crowley takes something out of pocket and puts it on the table. It’s small enough that Aziraphale can’t tell what it is with Crowley’s hand still in the way, and with a sigh Crowley pushes it across the table with two fingers. “Listen, you’re—I wanted this to be all special but if you’re going to fret and make this about me, then I have to—to push the envelope as they say—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts.

“No, wait a moment, just—give me a second, I know, I’m sorry, I’m not doing this right, and I know you must think this is a silly human thing and—”

“Crowley!”

“What?” Oh, the darling thing. He looks so wild around the eyes, how vulnerable, as if Aziraphale could ever turn him away. Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley’s, over the little box in his hand.

“You,” Aziraphale says, feeling all the words catch in his throat. He swallows, feeling his eyes prickle. “You have something to ask, don’t you?” Wordlessly Crowley pulls the box back and opens it. Inside there’s a ring, nothing fancy, but Aziraphale can see a little inscription around the inside that makes his heart ache.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley starts, but his voice cracks badly, and he bites his lip as a tear runs down his cheek. Aziraphale reaches an arm out, palm up, to Crowley and there’s not a second’s hesitation before he takes it. “You’ll marry me, won’t you?”

Aziraphale laughs, feeling tears run down his own face. “Of course, my love,” he says. “Of course.”

“Great,” Crowley laughs, teary. He takes the ring, slipping it on Aziraphale’s finger, holding his hand close. “That’s great.”

Later, Aziraphale will look at the inscription, and it’ll say _here’s our happy ending_.

(“Silly,” Aziraphale will say later about the inscription. “I didn’t need marriage to be happy with you. I was happy the moment we both survived the apocalypse.”

“Exactly. After that it was none of that star-crossed lovers’ nonsense. We showed those stars who’s boss,” Crowley says illogically, gesturing vaguely. “But now I can say I love you in every way.”

“Only if I can say it back,” Aziraphale laughs, scooping up Crowley for a kiss. He carries him to the bed, tossing him bodily on it. “Now let me love you for a while.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading. this is it, forreal this time.


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